The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  With this decision, Mansingh prepared to leave for Patna.

  Whether what Katlu Khan had told Jagatsingh during his dying moments had wrought any change in the prince remained unknown. He did subject himself to considerable expense and physical effort for the search. Was it born of memories of the past? Or was it for the same reasons drove Mansingh and the others? Perhaps it was a result of a rekindling of his love. No one knew—but whatever be the reason, his endeavour was in vain.

  Mansingh’s soldiers proceeded to dismantle their camp—there would be a march on the morrow. The time came to read the letter attached to the reins of Jagatsingh’s horse. Curious, the prince opened it and read it. All it said was:

  ‘If you fear your Maker, if you are afraid of the curse of the gods, come here alone as soon as you read this.

  I, a Brahmin’

  The prince was astounded. He wondered if it was the ploy of an enemy, undecided whether to go. But the Rajput feared nothing other than the curse of the Brahmin—so he decided to respond to the summons. Accordingly he instructed his followers not to wait for him; they could advance on their own without harm, he would join them subsequently in Bardhaman or Rajmahal. With these orders, Jagatsingh set forth alone for the wood.

  Arriving at the ruined palace, the prince tied his horse to the tree as before. Casting his eyes about, he could see no one. He proceeded to enter the palace. As before, he observed the grave to one side, the funeral pyre on the other. A Brahmin sat on the wood heaped on the pyre, his face lowered, weeping.

  ‘Have you summoned me here, sir?’ the prince asked.

  When the Brahmin raised his eyes, the prince discovered on enquiring after his identity that he was none other than Swami Abhiram.

  The prince felt surprised, joyful, and curious simultaneously. Offering respectful greetings, he said eagerly, ‘How anxiously I have sought your audience all this time. But why are you in this place?’

  Wiping his eyes, Swami Abhiram said, ‘This is where I reside at present.’

  Barely had he answered, then the prince plied him with more questions. ‘Why did you wish to see me? And why do you weep?’

  ‘The reason for my tears is also the reason for summoning you. Tilottama’s death is near.’

  Slowly, gently, one limb at a time, the warrior slumped to the ground. He recollected everything; each memory seemed to twist a knife sharply in a wound within him. The first encounter at the shrine of Shiva; the vow to meet again in the presence of the deity; their passionate tears in their first private meeting in the chamber; the events of that dreadful night; Tilottama’s face as she lay unconscious; her torment in the prison of the Yavanas; his own brutal behaviour during his incarceration; and then death here in this wilderness—all these thoughts assailed the prince’s heart like a whirlwind. The earlier flames flared a hundredfold.

  The prince sat in silence for a long time. ‘Since the day Bimala had avenged her widowhood by slaying the Yavana, I have been travelling incognito with my daughter and granddaughter, hiding from them—since then Tilottama has been afflicted by her sickness. You know its cause.’

  Jagatsingh felt his heart being torn asunder.

  ‘I have treated her in different ways in different places. I have studied the medical sciences in my youth, I have treated numerous maladies. I know of many medicines that are unknown to others. But there is no treatment for the affliction that lies within the heart. Because this place is desolate, we have been living here now, in this secluded spot, for the past six or seven days. When you appeared here by a miraculous coincidence, I affixed the letter to the reins of your horse. I had cherished the desire that, even if I could not save her life, I would ensure one more meeting between you and her to soothe her soul in her final hours. That is why I have asked you to come. All hope of Tilottama’s recovery was not lost when I wrote the letter, but I knew that unless there was some improvement within two days, the end would be upon us. What I had feared has since come true. There is no hope of Tilottama’s survival. The lamp is about to go out.’

  Swami Abhiram began to weep once more. Jagatsingh wept too.

  ‘You must not appear before her suddenly,’ Swami Abhiram continued. ‘Who knows, in her condition she may not be able to survive the intensity of the joy of seeing you. I have already informed her that I have sent word to you, there is a possibility of your coming. Now I shall inform her you are here, after which you may meet her.’

  The sage walked away towards the inner chambers of the ruined palace. Returning after some time, he said to the prince, ‘Come with me.’

  The prince accompanied the sage in the direction of the inner chambers. There he saw a single room that had remained intact, in it a broken, dilapidated bedstead, on which lay Tilottama—wasted away by her illness, and yet in possession of a beauty that was far from being extinguished. Even in this condition, she retained her soft grace; she was as enchanting as the morning star about to be extinguished. A widow sat close by, massaging her limbs; it was Bimala—her body unornamented, her clothes threadbare, her appearance impoverished. The prince was unable to recognize her initially; how could he, age may have stood still for her once but she was now a woman of advanced years.

  Tilottama had her eyes closed when the prince approached her and stood by her side. ‘Tilottama,’ Swami Abhiram addressed her. ‘Prince Jagatsingh is here.’

  Tilottama opened her eyes to gaze upon Jagatsingh; her glance was tender, full of affection, without the slightest sign of reproach. As soon as she had raised her eyes, Tilottama lowered them again, soon her eyes overflowed with tears. The prince could contain himself no longer; banishing his reserve, he sat at her feet, bathing them in silence with his own tears.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Dream Fulfilled

  THE FATHERLESS, UNPROTECTED YOUNG WOMAN was on her sickbed and Jagatsingh was by her bedside constantly. Day passed, then the night, day came once more, passed once more, and it was night’s turn again. The jewel of the Rajput clan sat by her dilapidated bedstead, attending to her needs and assisting the stricken, silent widow going about her duties tirelessly. He gazed upon the face of the suffering girl, wasted away by anxiety, waiting for the smile to reappear on her dew-soaked lotus-like face, waiting for her to bestow a glance upon him.

  Where was his camp? Where the soldiers? The troops had broken camp and gone to Patna. Where was his retinue? They were awaiting their master by the Dwarakeshwar river. But where was their master? He was shedding tears on the tender flower bud wilting under an unforgiving sun, trying to revive it.

  By and by, the tender flower bud was indeed revived. The most powerful magic ingredient in this world is affection. The strongest potion in illness is love. How else can a sick heart be mended?

  Just as the dying lamp begins to smile again when oil is poured in drop by drop, so too are vines withered by summer rejuvenated by the advent of rains. With Jagatsingh by her side, Tilottama regained her life in the same manner day by day.

  Gradually she became strong enough to sit up in her bed. In Bimala’s absence they were able to open their hearts to each other. They said very many things, admitted many lapses, recounted the many unreasonable hopes that had been born in their hearts and died there too, talked of the many alluring dreams they had dreamt in slumber and in wakefulness. Tilottama told Jagatsingh of a dream she had had, while half-conscious, during her illness…

  On a small hilltop replete with the beauty of the newly arrived spring, she and Jagatsingh appeared to be at play with flowers. Gathering the blossoms of spring, she threaded them into garlands, putting one around her own neck and one around Jagatsingh’s, but caught by the sword slung at Jagatsingh’s waist, the garland was severed. ‘I shall not place a garland around your neck any more, I shall use it as shackles to bind your feet,’ she said, weaving chains with the flowers. When she tried to put them on his feet, Jagatsingh stepped away. Tilottama ran in pursuit, Jagatsingh began to descend along the hillside swiftly. A narrow stream
ran across their path, which Jagatsingh leapt across. Being a woman, Tilottama could not do the same, and with the hope of fording the stream where it would be at its narrowest, she ran downhill alongside it. But far from shrinking, the more she proceeded, the more the stream widened; soon it became a small river, then the small river widened to become a big river. Jagatsingh was no longer visible, the banks of the river became higher, uneven, she could barely move her feet. Moreover, large clumps of earth gave way beneath her feet, dropping into the river with a huge splash; there were vicious whirlpools in the water below, she dared not look. Tilottama tried to ascend the hillside again so that the river could not devour her. The path was uneven, her feet dragged; Tilottama began to sob loudly; suddenly the resurrected, and vengeful, figure of Katlu Khan appeared to block her way. The garland of flowers around her neck turned into a deadweight of iron chains. The chain of flowers slipped from her hands, falling on her feet and encircling her ankles in the form of iron chains; she was forced to halt suddenly. Capturing her neck in a vice-like grip, Katlu Khan whirled her around and flung her into the rapid currents of the river below.

  Concluding her account, Tilottama said tearfully, ‘This was not a mere dream, prince. The chain of flowers I had woven for you truly encircled my ankles in the form of iron chains. The garland of blossoms I had placed around your neck was indeed severed by your blade.’

  Laughing, the prince placed the sword in his scabbard at Tilottama’s feet. ‘Here before you I shed my blade, Tilottama. Place your garland around my neck again, and I shall break my sword in two.’

  When Tilottama did not respond, the prince said, ‘I am not speaking in riddles, Tilottama.’

  Tilottama lowered her face in bashfulness.

  That evening, Swami Abhiram was reading a manuscript in a chamber by lamplight. Entering, the prince said respectfully, ‘I have an appeal to make of you, sir. Tilottama is now capable of withstanding the strain of a journey, why then should she continue suffering in this decaying edifice? If tomorrow not be an inauspicious day, bring her to Fort Mandaran. And if you are not unwilling, pray gratify my desire by giving your granddaughter in marriage to the Amer dynasty.’

  Dropping his manuscript on the floor, Swami Abhiram embraced the prince, blissfully unaware that he was standing on the sacred text.

  When the prince was on his way to Swami Abhiram, discerning his intention, Bimala and Aasmani had followed him quietly. Waiting outside, they heard everything. When he re-emerged, the prince saw that Bimala had unexpectedly become her former self; she was laughing, pulling at Aasmani’s hair and hitting her playfully. Ignoring the blows being rained on her, Aasmani was submitting to a test of her dancing skills. The prince walked past them quietly.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Conclusion

  FLOWERS BLOSSOMED. TRAVELLING to Fort Mandaran, Swami Abhiram ensured that his granddaughter entered into matrimony with Jagatsingh with great pomp and ceremony.

  The prince had invited his friends and members of his retinue from Jahanabad to the festivities. Several of Tilottama’s father’s compatriots who were also invited joined the celebrations and plunged themselves into the revelries.

  Jagatsingh had informed Ayesha too, as she had requested. She had arrived, accompanied by her younger brother—an adolescent—and escorted by numerous citizens.

  Although she was a Yavana, Ayesha was given residence in the women’s chambers of the fort by virtue of Jagatsingh and Tilottama’s affection for her. The reader may imagine that a heartbroken Ayesha was unable to participate in the celebrations. In truth, it was not so. Aided by the ebullience of her own happy nature, Ayesha kept everyone in good spirits, dispensing her charm everywhere through her gentle smile, just like the swaying lotus in early autumnal bloom.

  The wedding ceremonies were performed at night. Ayesha prepared to leave with her entourage, bidding farewell to Bimala with a smile. Bimala, who knew nothing, said, ‘Now it will be our turn to be invited to your wedding, Your Highness.’

  Taking leave of Bimala, Ayesha led Tilottama into a secluded chamber. Clasping her hand, she said, ‘Now I shall go, my sister. I bless you with all my heart and soul, may you enjoy a life of eternal bliss.’

  ‘When shall we meet again?’ asked Tilottama.

  ‘How can we expect to meet again?’ asked Ayesha. Tilottama was disappointed. Both of them fell silent.

  After an interval, Ayesha said, ‘Whether we meet again or not, you will not forget Ayesha, will you?’

  ‘If I forget Ayesha the prince will not keep my company,’ said Tilottama smiling.

  ‘That does not please me,’ said Ayesha gravely. ‘You must never talk about me to the prince. Promise that you shall not.’

  Ayesha knew that her sacrifice would always remain a wound in Jagatsingh’s heart. Even a reference to Ayesha could cause him to repent.

  Tilottama promised. ‘And yet do not forget me either,’ said Ayesha. ‘Do not discard the keepsake I shall give you.’

  Summoning her maid, Ayesha gave her an order. As commanded, the maid fetched an ivory casket filled with jewels and ornaments. Dismissing her, Ayesha proceeded to adorn Tilottama in them with her own hands.

  Although Tilottama was the daughter of a wealthy landowner, she was astonished by the exquisite craftsmanship and the extraordinary shine of the precious diamonds and other gems that the ornaments were studded with. As a matter of fact, Ayesha had given up all the ornaments inherited from her father to have this valuable set of jewellery crafted for Tilottama. As the bride began to extol the virtues of the trousseau, Ayesha said, ‘There is no need to be full of praise, my sister. These ornaments are worth not a fraction of the value of the jewel that shall adorn your heart from now on.’ Tilottama had not an inkling of the effort with which Ayesha contained her tears as she said this.

  After she had dressed Tilottama in the ornaments, Ayesha took both her hands and gazed upon her face. ‘This loving countenance does not suggest that my dearest one will experience even a single day’s grief because of her,’she mused. ‘Unless the Almighty decrees otherwise, I pray to Him that she gives him all the happiness he deserves till eternity.’

  To Tilottama, she said, ‘I am leaving now, Tilottama. Your husband is probably busy, I shall not distract him by bidding him farewell. May the Lord grant both of you a long life together. Wear the ornaments I have given you. And keep my…your prized jewel safe in your heart.’

  Ayesha choked as she pronounced the words ‘your prized jewel’. Tilottama saw her eyelashes trembling with unshed tears.

  ‘Why do you weep?’ asked Tilottama, moved. At this Ayesha began to cry, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  Without another moment’s delay, she left, climbing into her palanquin.

  Night had not yet ended when she reached her own residence. Discarding her finery, she stood before the window. A soothing breeze blew in, a million stars glowed in a sky that was a softer indigo than the garments she had just shed; the leaves of the trees murmured in the darkness as they swayed in the gentle wind. An owl hooted softly, sonorously, atop the tower. Beneath the window, at the base of the fort, the overflowing moat silently took on the reflection of the sky.

  Sitting by the window, Ayesha let her thoughts run. She removed one of the rings on her fingers—it held poison. ‘I could drink this now and quench my thirst forever,’ she mused. The very next moment, she reflected, ‘But is this what God sent me to earth for? If I cannot withstand this pain, why was I born a woman? What will Jagatsingh say when he hears?’

  She put the ring back on. Then, struck by a thought, she took it off again. ‘No woman can withstand this temptation,’ she reflected. ‘It is wiser to get rid of it.’

  Ayesha hurled the poisoned ring into the waters of the moat.

  Translator’s note

  BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTOPADHYAY is believed to have written Durgeshnandini, his first Bengali novel, between 1862 and 1864. Despite alarming the orthodoxy, it was published to enthusiastic reviews
in 1865 and went into thirteen editions. The first English translation was published as early as in 1880, indicating just how keenly Indians who could not read Bengali and, presumably, the English, wanted to read it.

  Any novel that is being translated into English a hundred and thirty five years after its appearance naturally poses a question of how contemporary the translation should be in its choice of vocabulary, syntax, and structure. The written Bengali of that period was still a ‘classical’ one, not approximating the spoken language, but closer in tone to the high Bengali used in poetry. This is the language of Durgeshnandini. Since the novel abounds in dialogue, much of the speech is imbued with a formality of tone—often bordering, as a result, on the declamatory—except in very intimate exchanges.

  Complicating things further is the setting of the novel—1592 Common Era, during the reign of the Mughal emperor Akbar. And although the theatre of the novel is Bengal, the characters are Mughals and Pathans, with a few locals thrown in, whose tongue was obviously far removed from the one in which the author makes them speak.

  In Durgeshnandini, Bankim solved the problem of capturing a historical era by ignoring it—he simply used the accepted language of Bengali prose of his time. His writing was nevertheless replete with ornamentation, stylization, descriptions that are a tip of a hat to literary conventions of his era—more poetry than prose in spirit, more prose than poetry in letter. He was, after all, following in the slipstream of, among others, the epic verse writer Michael Madhusudhan Datta.

  The challenge of translating Durgeshnandini is to retain this classical prose style yet not lose the narrative verve which is perhaps the novel’s most exceptional feature. Bankim’s own English novel, Rajmohan’s Wife, serialized in 1864, may have offered a template. It was his first work of fiction, after which he wrote only in Bengali. However while Rajmohan’s Wife is an accurate reflection of how Bankim actually used the English language, it cannot be used as a model for a translation of Durgeshnandini today. For the idiom is archaic, not merely historical, and would do no justice to the racy contemporaneity of the novel.